


Shore Leave

by almostjulie



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Hero Worship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostjulie/pseuds/almostjulie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Han Solo wants is a drink, but the New Republic flyboy down the bar won't stop staring at him. </p><p>-or-</p><p>Poe owes Han a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shore Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is alway appreciated!

There was a New Republic cruiser in orbit above the outpost and the place was crawling with military. It made Han itch a little, to be in the presence of so many uniforms. But he’d picked the seediest bar here to meet back up with Chewbacca, and the military was sticking to the more reputable spots. Mostly. 

It was day one of his three day rendezvous window with Chewie, and so far there’d been no sign of him. Which suited Han just fine -- it meant he got to drink. 

And that was all he wanted to do, but the New Republic flyboy down the bar wouldn’t stop staring at him. “See something you like?” It was intended to embarrass him, to get him to stop staring so Han could drink in peace, but instead he took it as an invitation to move down the bar and slide into the stool next to Han’s.

Han rolled his eyes and ordered himself another round, and looked back and forth between the pilot and the bartender. 

“Put it on my tab,” he said, without missing a beat. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Had I known you were going to be so generous, I would have gone top shelf.” 

The pilot shrugged agreeably. “Next round then, whatever you want. Sky’s the limit.” 

The guy was good looking, Han had to admit. Mid-twenties, maybe, with a mop of dark curly hair that looked impossible to manage, dark eyes with a mischievous glint, warm skin. There was something about him that was nearly familiar, like Han was a blink away from recognizing him. Still, Han couldn’t quite place it and, he thought, he couldn’t possibly know the guy. He didn’t really fraternize with New Republic military, and certainly no one as young as this kid.

“Didn’t realize the Republic paid so well. Maybe I should join up.” 

“It doesn’t. Some things are just worth splurging on.”

“Why don’t you stop trying to flatter me, kid, and let me know what you really want.” 

He pressed his knee against Han’s thigh and said, low and seductive, “I’d rather show you. Got a place?” The boldness was appealing, and the offer was tempting. The flyboy was clearly willing, eager, even, and, well, it didn’t look like Chewie was showing up anytime soon. 

“What about that drink?”

“I’ll owe you one.” 

Han nodded at him, and then downed what was left in his glass and stood as the kid tossed a handful of credits on the bar. 

***

Han walked them briskly through the shipyard. 

“This is our stop.” 

His companion blinked up at the ship. 

“Something wrong?”

“What? Oh, no, sir. Everything’s great. Let’s go.” 

***

As soon as the hatch hissed shut the pilot was all over him.

“My bunk’s this way,” Han shoved him and gestured to the open door at the other end of the passageway. But he pulled away and grabbed Han’s hand, tugging in the other direction. “Not yet, need the tour first.” 

“Really not much to see, it’s just a junk freighter.” Han wasn’t proud of this ship. It got the job done, sure, but there was nothing special about it. And he wasn’t here as a tour guide, he was here to get laid. The kid ignored him, though, and found his way to the cockpit, where he pushed Han down into the pilot’s chair without ceremony. 

He climbed on top of Han and started pushing Han’s shirt up, palms warm against Han’s stomach. “Isn’t this much better than the bunk?” 

“No.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to work to convince you,” he said. Han’s shirt was off, and the kid was fumbling with the buttons on his own dress uniform. He whispered obscenities into Han’s mouth as he worked at them until he was finally free of the jacket and the shirt below it. Han traced his hands over the newly exposed expanse of lean muscle, until the younger man bucked, grinding his bulge into Han’s, and Han leaned forward and bit his shoulder, tasting salty skin and eliciting a, “That’s more like it.” 

The kid was so full of energy. So fucking happy. It was a little sickening, honestly. “You want to dial it back a notch?”

He just laughed, apologetically unapologetic. “Sorry, no. I really can’t. I thought this port was gonna be dull.” He was working Han’s fly open, and Han’s dick sprang free, right into a waiting hand. 

“Are all New Republic pilots as mouthy as you?”

“I hope not, sir, or how else am I gonna distinguish myself?” 

“I can think of a few ways,” Han said as he pushed the flyboy down to his knees. It was cheesy, but he didn’t seem to mind. Han was liking him more and more. The feeling was amplified when his lips closed around Han’s dick. Han put a hand in his hair to guide him, a little more roughly than necessary, but rather than protest the kid moaned, the sound caressing Han’s dick, and Han found himself tugging his hair a little harder. 

Han closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the sensation for a while: bobbing head, swirling tongue, the vibration from a hum from the back of the pilot’s throat. Han was close, and getting closer, but he wasn’t about to waste this opportunity on a mere blowjob. 

He hauled the kid back up into his lap, sweat-slick and pliable, lips red, wet and swollen; he was impossibly pretty. His fly was already open, he’d been touching himself while he worked on Han, but Han tugged his uniform pants down off his hips, and the kid helped, shimmying back a little and working his way mostly out of them. 

He moved back in quickly, sucking and nipping against Han’s collar bone. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make himself known in the moment. Han ran his hands down his back, grabbed his ass, pulling him closer so their dicks rubbed together, ran a finger along the crack between his cheeks.

The body above him shivered. “Hey, you got any--”

“Yeah,” Han cut him off, annoyed. “Back in _my bunk_.”

He scrambled off Han instantly, but when Han tried to follow he pressed him back into the seat with a kiss full of tongue and promise. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he said, and he kicked his remaining pant leg off as he hurried toward the back of the ship.

“Box under the mattress,” Han called after him, and before let himself change his mind, got his pants the rest of the way off, too. If he was going to do this, he was going to be comfortable.

The kid already had the tube open and was squeezing the lube over his fingers as he crawled back into Han’s lap. “Miss me?” he asked, staring down at Han with a wicked glean in his eye. Kid had guts, Han would give him that. He tossed the tube away, landing with a soft thump on the towel that he’d also had the foresight to bring back with him. 

Han was expecting those slicked up fingers to wrap around his dick first, _wanted_ them to, but instead the kid reached behind himself and started working them into his crack. A fresh jolt of heat headed to Han’s dick at the sight of the kid’s face as he worked himself and he though, no, maybe this was is better. 

Still, he liked to think he wasn’t a complete asshole, so once the kid had done a little bit of prep he knocked his hand away and moved his own fingers in. Clearly pleased with this development, the kid groaned and bore down when Han entered him, gasped when Han crooked his fingers inside. 

He was cursing now, a steady stream of _fuckfuckfuck_. The pilot shifted again, taking Han’s dick in his hand and guiding it into, slowly lowering his body down. He was unbelievably tight around Han’s dick, and the pain-laced pleasure on his faced confirmed for Han that maybe he wasn’t quite fully prepped. But he ground out a smile and kept lowering himself -- clearly _enjoying_ it -- until Han was buried in him completely. 

“Good?” Han said, just to make sure, before they start moving.

“Oh, yeah. Good. Good good good.” The words kept pouring out of him. “Been fantasizing about you fucking me in the cockpit since I was fifteen. Granted, I always imagined it was the _Falcon_ , but this will do. Beggars can’t be choosers, eh?”

Han gripped the kid’s hips, hard, fingertips biting in, stilling him. 

“Do I know you?”

He scrapped the blunt fingernails of one hand down Han’s chest in a very distracting manner and said, “You’re Han Solo. Kessel Run. Death Star. Everyone knows you.” 

“Not what I asked.”

He leaned forward as much as he could with Han’s grip on him, changing the angle and causing them both to hiss. It took all of Han’s willpower to keep his hips from bucking. The pilot’s teeth tugged at Han’s earlobe. “Does it matter?”

If Han were thinking with his brain instead of his dick, he suspected it might. Instead, Han thought to himself, they were both consenting adults, and stopped pressing the issue. So he loosened his grip and the pilot took it for the agreement it was. 

They moved together in a steadily increasing rhythm, until they were _both_ cursing under their breaths. The other man came first, shooting out between them; three or more thrusts and Han followed, emptying himself inside him. 

The kid collapsed into him, breathing heavily, but only stayed there a moment before getting up, grabbing the towel, and cleaning himself up. He tossed the towel to Han with a smile, and Han shook his head, but smiled back. The kid was all right. 

As he pulled his jacket back on, the pilot asked, not entirely seriously, “So, still want to get that drink?” 

Han should say no. For any number of reasons, the most immediate being that he really wanted to get back to his bunk and pass out. He was getting too old for this. But, he rationalized, he should probably make sure Chewie wasn’t waiting for him back at the bar. And if he was going back, he might as well have a drink on the Republic while he was at it. “I’m going to regret this, but, why not?”

The kid clearly didn’t expect him to say yes. His eyes went wide, almost like this was a better surprise than the sex, and he coughed a little. “Oh, um, okay. Great.” 

***

They walked back across the shipyard in silence. 

“Hold on a minute there, flyboy. You’re a mess. I’m not walking through that door with you. Meet me inside.” Han left the kid trying to fix his hair as he headed back in. 

It was more crowded now, but Han still managed to find a seat at the bar. He didn’t really pay particular attention to the table of New Republic pilots in the corner until he saw the kid walk back in, looking, well, _slightly_ more put together then he had just left him, though not by much. The table of pilots noticed him, too. “Dameron! It was your idea to come here, where’ve you been all night?” 

It all clicked into place. Han grabbed his arm in a vice grip as he tried to walk past, over to the group. “You’re Kes Dameron’s boy?” There was a warning in his voice, but of what, Han wasn’t even sure himself. 

He didn’t know how he missed it earlier but now that he knew it was there, the family resemblance was impossible to overlook. And Han _had_ meet Poe Dameron before, at least twice. He remembered a little boy running around in the yard in his mom’s too-big flight helmet, arms outstretched, pretending to fly. And the same boy, a few years later, crying into his dad’s shirt at Shara Bey’s funeral. It was hard to reconcile that boy with the man next to him, and for that, Han was relieved.

Poe turned and looked him straight in the eye. “I didn’t mean to deceive you, exactly. I just figured if you knew who I was, I wouldn’t stand a chance. And I _really_ wanted a chance.” 

Han didn’t say anything. Eventually, Poe said, “I guess that drink’s off, huh?” 

It was supposed to be an anonymous fuck, but now, knowing what he did, Han felt like he had to say _something_ to Poe. He settled on the only thing he could think of. “So what do you fly, kid?”

Poe didn’t comment on Han’s sudden interest in him as person rather than just a body, and answered, “X-Wings, mostly.” 

“You any good?”

Before Poe could respond another pilot who had a few years on Poe walked by and slapped Poe on the back. “This guy? He’s a cocky little shit. And way too fond of his astromech.” Poe’s ears reddened just slightly. After everything they’d done tonight, _that_ was what embarrassed him? “But he is one of the best pilots we have.” 

Han and Poe just stood there, looking at each other.

“Let’s go Dameron, it’s past curfew, we’re pressing our luck.” Sure enough, the other Republic pilots were filing out. Poe hesitated and hung back with Han, like he was about to say something. But Han surprised himself and said something first. 

“Your mom would be proud.” 

Poe sucked in a sharp breath, and looked at him with such naked gratitude it almost hurt. It was the most intimate moment they shared all night. “Thank you, sir,” Poe breathed. 

Han leaned in close and whispered, “Just the flying, though. That other skill set you demonstrated? She’d kill us both.”

“Yeah,” Poe said.

“Yeah, well...” Han said, and suddenly _he_ was uncomfortable. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.” 

Buoyed by Han’s words, a smile spread across Poe’s face. “Yeah, me too. I really should get going. But I won’t forget I owe you a drink.” 

***

Han collapsed into the chair with a deep sigh. Seeing Ben again, seeing him like _that_ was a punch to the gut. Seeing _Leia_ again, well, that he couldn’t even describe. It was a blessing, really, when she got called away to deal with the recon data; if they’d kept talking he might have said something stupid. So Han found this dark corner and figured he’d stay out of the way until he was needed. 

A bottle of off-brand whiskey appeared on the table in front of him. It was mostly empty, but there were a few fingers of golden-brown liquid still in it. “The Resistance doesn’t really get in much top shelf liquor. Best I could do on short notice.” Han looked up to see Poe Dameron, of all people, standing in front of him in a Resistance flight suit. It had been a crazy few days, what was one more thing? “I owe you a drink.”

He did, maybe, what felt like a lifetime ago. “You always drink before a big mission, kid?” 

“Oh, of course not,” Poe said, voice laced with amusement. “But I’m a respectable naval officer, not a smuggler.” 

“Respectable, huh?” Han flashed back to how Poe had looked that night, after, when they were walking back to the bar. Hair mussed, pupils blown, thoroughly debauched. Stars, he was beautiful. Still was. 

Poe rubbed at the back of his neck and looked at Han with a mix of embarrassment and pride. “Well, most of the time.” 

Han eyed the bottle longingly and sighed. “I think I’ll sit it out this time, too.” There was work to be done, and a heavy weight hanging over everything. 

Never one to be discouraged, Poe just shrugged and said, “Guess I’ll still owe you, then.”

Poe was older, but not old. He did make Han feel _ancient_ , though, but ever since he’d retaken the _Falcon_ and picked up Rey and Finn, everyone had. Leia was a little different, made him feel both young and old at once, and a thousand other things on top of that, and there were way too many emotions to process there and he _couldn’t_ now. It was why he was hiding away in a corner, after all. 

They were interrupted then by a lieutenant, who said to Poe, “Commander? Captain Wexley’s landed.”

“That’s my cue to go do respectable things. See you at the briefing.” When Han didn’t say anything, Poe continued, “It’s an honor to have you fighting with us, sir.” 

Han grunted and waved his hand dismissively. 

“And we’ll get that drink another time.” 

“In your dreams.” 

Nothing was going to happen between them again. Han knew it, and he was certain Poe knew it, too. But Poe looked Han over slowly, head to toe and back again, gave him a wicked, teasing, grin. “Nearly every night. Still.” 

And, _fuck_ , maybe Han wasn’t feeling quite so ancient, after all.


End file.
